FIESTA FRIDAYS

I woke up today, my eyes peeking through its lids in hopes of finding nothing but darkness.

Minor sunlight.

I facially groaned and reached over for my phone in hopes of confirming that yes, I have about two more hours of delicious sleep in my future. The time read 6:38 A.M., 22 minutes before my alarm goes off and yet another 8-hour day passes by. I felt myself growing warm and comfortable again as I slowly eased myself back to sleep.

My phone vibrated. Again. And again. Annnd...again. It continued a few more times and finally stopped. It was my boyfriend's nightly ritual to text me, and they usually range from lengthy to length-tabulous. Who am I kidding? They're all long and nice to wake up to.

I got ready like the 9-5 toolbag I am, and debated on whether or not I have time to dry my hair. On my way out from my room, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and jumped. Jesus. Alright already, I'll go and dry my hair.

Here's to another day working for a job I care very little for (*fakes downing a bott--glass of wine*).

Now, before judgment arises, I must clarify. Upon hire, I told my employer that I wouldn't be here for long. It would only serve as means to save money and contribute to my financial obligations. I do have some goals that I've been working on, but I can't exactly share it with the public. I will tell you, though, that I am saving up for these unlabeled goals. I'm only human. I'm a simpleton. I'm insignificant. I'm no celebrity. I am Jack's piece of shit. Yeah, so I kind of just made a Fight Club reference. If you didn't get it, then you are not the target demographic for readership.

I'm kidding. Who am I to tell you whether or not you should read my shit? I'm not that snobby.

It's usually in the mornings anytime after 8:01 A.M. that my friend, Foley, texts me. Every morning from Monday through Friday, like clockwork. I'll get a notification telling me that (a) Foley has texted me and (b) Hautelook is sending me daily spam email. I don't even shop on Hautelook. Forgive me for being curious and signing up with my email.

"Fiesta Frito Friday. I feel as though the days passed by way too quick this week, it's alrdy friday??" Foley calls them Fiesta Fridays when we both commute on our our own respective freeways to our separate jobs. I love Fridays. The cars merge smoothly, the drivers are more efficient, and the distance between all vehicles widens. People just don't hate their lives as much on Fridays.

Some time during work, George and I began to stray from our normal conversation on Gchat to discuss the imaginative possibilities of experiments on whether or not females are (considering majorities) more detail-oriented than males are. He made a good point observing that males do tend to be detail-oriented in things they are interested in. But still, what causes this? Nature or nurture? To speculate, we created this fictional world in which we completely isolate individuals from present day societies in all parts of the world. The question I posed was, "Would this experiment be considered abuse?" We are talking about a lack of exposure to...everything. Will these individuals still harbor gender-specific characteristics that we observe in the men and women we live with today?

This discussion went along the lines of The Truman Show, starring Jim Carrey. In this film, Jim Carrey plays a man who slowly begins to realize that his entire life was a reality TV show. The people he has grown up with, the people he has come to love and care for, are all participating actors. What a fucking trip. The worst part of this storyline is that it was for the sheer purpose of entertainment!

But why am I surprised? That's what's happening today, is it not?

These thoughts are way too intense for a Friday afternoon. Behind me, a small stack of magazines sit underneath my purse. Rolling Stones (featuring 30 Rock's last hurrah), Cosmopolitan, and US Weekly. Unattended and unread. I'm sitting in this office suite alone while I listen to the visiting Canon tech install and set up the network for our Canon copier. The phone rings in my boss's empty office. Pandora plays on the Two Door Cinema Club station. My keystrokes are louder than they should be.

Here's to my first blog ever since MySpace stopped happening.